The Shittiest Princess is a series of funny fairy tales for those of us who ain’t exactly cartoon princesses. Stay tuned for a new adventure every week! You can find the whole series here.
Once inside a dungeon dreary, Princess Poot attended her appointment with the palace’s Fish Tank Scum Cleaning and Flipper-Tickling Minions for her monthly gill routing. Poot was the shittiest princess in the world, and not just because her gills were so prone to algae.
Poot giggled in her dank living dungeon as the Minion finished up with a proper tickle, as enforced by law.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said the Minion, a young woman who seemed very familiar to Poot for some reason. “I’m such a huge fan of yours, and I strive to be just like you.”
“You do what now?” The last person who wanted to be like Poot was no one, for the princess was voted out every week on Dancing with Your Betters even though she never competed.
The Minion bowed and walked backwards out of the room, waving to both Poot and her friend-wife, Prince Agnes. “I’m having gills installed next week!” spake she before she was gone.
Strange, thought Poot. But then again, all of her appointments leaned toward strange. It was her monthly maintenance day, when her fin scar got shellacked, her elbow hair sanded, and her teeth run through the dishwasher.
The next Minion of the day hurried through the dungeon door. “I am your new Pustule Purifying Minion, my lady,” said she.
“Have we met before?” Poot asked. She tried to remember her usual Minions; she figured when the unwashed masses inevitably revolted, they might spare her because she was less assault-ey than the rest of her family, and also less washed.
The Pustule Purifying Minion fell to her knees. “I have not yet had the pleasure, oh great Princess Poot! But just this week I had my hair frizzed and browned to match yours.”
Agnes, sitting next to Poot on their couch, looked up from her copy of Savings ‘N’ Smut. “Holy crap, Princess III. She looks just like you.”
Indeed, the girl’s skin had been smudged with something to turn it more chartreuse colored. Her boobs flopped about freely inside her Minion Schmatta, and half of her teeth had been blacked out.
“Why have you done this to yourself?” Poot asked. If Poot was going to try to look like anyone, it would be Helen Mirren. Being less wrinkled would be heaven!
The Minion began work sawing into Poot’s pustules with the Royal Router. “I follow POOP, your highness. It’s the lifestyle blog that focuses on inner beauty, and also making friends with weird creatures, like the delightful moat Squid. Why, just yesterday I befriended a cuddly skunk who sometimes sleeps near my cardboard box. You can smell him on me; his name is Oh, Please, Not Again.”
Agnes took up her laptop and clicked into Kingdomville’s most popular search engine, The Searchey Box That Has Replaced Traveling Salesmen Who Hock Encyclopedias. “Princess III, you need to see this.”
Poot schlepped her seeping skin to her bestie’s side to witness an amazing phenomenon — POOP, the Poot Pursuit Lifestyle Blog. Agnes read aloud, “Are you tired of patriarchal beauty standards? Are you exhausted from painting your face with lead, and then totally dying from it? Until there’s Maybelline, be your own worst Poot!”
“Yes,” said the frizzy Minion. “I save so much time by not plucking anything. No more corsets or under-wires, because my floppy boobs are beautiful to me. My life has drastically improved by giving up and embracing my POOP.”
Agnes giggled. “They have a point, Princess III. Why, maybe you should leave your pustules to fester and just enjoy yourself this afternoon. Um, maybe let them seep over there, though…”
The Minion let out a squeak. “Ack! Please don’t banish me, princess. If I don’t bring a quart of pustule puss to the king as proof, he’ll lop off my head. But then again… if that happened, I could give up hair brushing completely. It’s really kindof a toss-up — being a Minion is total shit.”
Poot replied, “Isn’t it total… POOP?”
They all had a merry laugh, except for the Minion, who swallowed yet another glob of despair and shoved it deep, deep down.
Later that evening, at one of Bucky the Evil Stepmother’s stupid parties in honor of her thigh gap, Poot could not stop thinking about poop.
After she had a nice BM, Poot thought about the website dedicated to her. A glow of joy warmed her to know that she helped oozy women embrace their oozes. So when Bucky threw a gnawed-on chicken bone in her face, Poot said, “How dare you! I’m not a bone bucket. Not anymore — I’m an aspirational lifestyle.”
The entire court laughed until they fell over. Poot held her head high, and not because it aired out her gills, but because of pride. “I’m going to help people,” said Poot to no one because they never listened to her. “Other people besides you tools,” she clarified.
The next day, Poot emailed the web mistress of POOP and arranged an opportunity to speak at a rally in favor of letting go of convention and embracing the disgusting inner you. The event would happen that very day because it was the olden times, and there wasn’t anything to do except get the plague and embroider.
Princess Poot stood on a wagon and addressed hundreds of POOP-ers near the moat of the castle. “Dear friends, thank you for your warm welcome!” The crowd hooted, hollered, and waved foam cutouts of poo. “I’m living proof that no one needs to be a size zero or blonde to have a wonderful life. Just look at me — I’m an oppressed spinster who drinks too much beer and lives in a dungeon!”
The crowd went wild. Old folks threw their false teeth into the air. Men stomped upon their toupees, and women burned their merkins. Naturally, it was a beautiful sight to behold.
Castle denizens began to wander into the meadow to see what the ugly commotion was about. They gasped to see the dreck of society rallying around Princess Poot — and all of these weirdos happy with not being the elite! Why, what would happen to a society that didn’t buy things and pay for services to make them upwardly mobile and more attractive to their superiors? Tragedy!
One lofty duke called for help. Well, he made his Minion do it. The chief of the castle guards, Beefy McManly Head Guard Guy Definitely Not Compensating for Anything With This Giant Sword, watched the crowd bedecked in ponchos and muu-muus with alarm. Their matted hair. Their pimply facades. Their smiling faces content with their inner and outer selves. It was not to be borne! If Beefy McManly must compensate with this giant sword, then everyone else should, too.
Uh, not compensate. Ahem.
Beefy called for an attack, and the might of the castle was unleashed upon the unsuspecting POOP-ers. The armed force sprayed de-tangling conditioner from above, and shot confining underwear from cannons.
The pro-Poot faction began to run, which further caused a stampede of attractive courtiers, who fled from all those Birkenstocks and horrifying live-and-let-live attitudes. Tens of people suffered permanent boot marks to the face that day, and Poot herself was flung into the moat.
Good thing Squid was there to save her from the annoying turtle who thought he was such hot shit. Poot crawled, wet and limp, from the moat to see POOP carnage and screaming courtiers.
Agnes ran up to Poot. “Oh, thank goodness you’re okay! Everyone getting trampled looked like you.”
“Alas and alack,” cried Poot. “This is all my fault!”
“No, it isn’t. Blame the Internet. It’s what any lazy intellectual would do.”
Poot wrung out her boob starfishes with a sigh.
And so King Handsome banished POOP from the online cesspool forever. All those unfortunates who’d taken inspiration from Poot returned to their perpetual self-hatred. They read online articles called “Seventeen Ways to Change for Male Approval or End up like Sad Princess Poot,” and “You’re Fat. You Are. It’s Gross and Terrible. Yes, You There Reading This. It IS That Bad, Just like Your Judgmental Uncle Says.” Sales of Spanx went through the roof, which was the most important thing, really.
Next week, we bring you a Friend-Wife Agnes story! She stars in “Prince Agnes and the Secret Cupcake Boyfriend.”